


all work & no play (let me count the bruises)

by possibilist



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:24:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/possibilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'“I’ve turned eighteen 316 times.” You take her hand and then you ask, “How should we celebrate?”' carmilla's birthday. angst but mostly fluff. carmilla/laura.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all work & no play (let me count the bruises)

all work & no play (let me count the bruises)  
.  
only bad people live to see/ their likeness set in stone/ what does that make me?  
—lorde, ‘still sane’  
/  
She’s acting especially apathetic and miserable today, not that you should care, but you, unfortunately, do—more every day, which is even worse.  
Currently she’s sprawled on her bed facedown in leggings and an oversized flannel. Other than one of the fingers on her left hand pressing out a little rhythm on the side of her mattress, you’d probably think she was dead.  
But then, “Do you prefer to be referred to as ‘the undead’ or, you know, something else?” you ask.  
“I prefer to not be referred to at all,” she mumbles without moving.  
You press on: “Because it’s strange, right? You’re dead but animate.”  
“Been reading Webster’s there, sweetheart?”  
You flush because—yes, you had googled it.  
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says, then stands only to plug in her iPod and then flop back down again.   
You’re surprised when Lorde’ Pure Heroin starts blaring over the speakers, but you decide not to really question it—you like this album a lot, and yesterday she’d played Misfits for hours, and while you do appreciate punk pioneers, you don’t know if a whole day of them is really your aesthetic. You’re getting better at reading things about her—when she’s listening to Lily Allen, she’s generally a bit cheerier; when she’s listening to Goethe, she’s nostalgia; when you catch her dancing to Fergie one day, she doesn’t even bother with an excuse and just leaves, but you swear you’ve never really seen her try to hide a bigger smile.  
But today she really hasn’t moved in an hour, and you’re unwillingly concerned—she’s supposed to be protecting you, so in some ways you figure your care is valid.   
“What’s wrong?” you ask, because you know she’s not going to offer any information.  
“Why would anything be wrong?”  
“You listened to early punk all day yesterday and haven’t moved in three hours.”  
“I’m tired,” she says.  
“That’s impossible.”  
“I’m old,” she tries again, languidly turning onto her side with a very exaggerated sigh.  
You don’t really have an argument, but, still—“You’re perpetually eighteen, right?”  
“You’re incredibly astute, you know that, cupcake?”  
You feel your face pinch and then you catch her smirk, and you take a deep breath and turn on your computer to work on your Polisci essay.   
But then, after a few minutes—“Today is technically my birthday,” Carmilla says quietly.  
“Oh,” you breathe, and you realize frequently that there are sufferings she experiences, still, that you cannot possibly understand. You turn around in your chair and she’s flopped face down on your pillow again, and you ask quietly, “Are you—how is that—”  
“—Time is filled with the presence of now,” she deadpans.  
“What?”  
She sits up slowly and then smiles tiredly. “His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet.”  
You have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, but she’s at least talking, so you don’t say anything and, predictably, you think with a small smile, she keeps going.  
“The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them.” She closes her eyes for a moment and then finishes tiredly, softly, “The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned. He grows skyward.”  
You’re quiet and watch as she swallows.  
“Walter Benjamin,” she says. “Unfortunately he died while I was—I never got to meet him, but his work is, obviously, brilliant.”  
You stand and walk over toward her bed, and when she doesn’t scowl with any real validity, you sit down next to her.   
“I’ve turned eighteen 316 times.”  
You take her hand and then you ask, “How should we celebrate?”  
She barks a laugh and looks at you incredulously.   
“It’s not everyday you get to have a 316th eighteenth birthday party for your—uh, roommate,” you say.  
She smiles genuinely and shrugs. “You can’t tell anyone else though, okay?”  
“Okay. I promise,” you add sincerely.   
She nods and then you get up and fling a coat at her.   
“We’re going go get cake baking supplies,” you announce, and she follows with an exaggerated huff.  
.  
You managed to bake an entirely edible rainbow cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles—Carmilla had picked all of them, ducking her head with embarrassment—and you’re about halfway through your second bottle of wine and mostly finished with the cake on the floor of your dorm when you gasp.  
“We forgot candles!”  
“We’d have burnt down the building.”  
You get up as coherently as you can and take one of the candles from her headboard and light it before sitting down and shoving it in front of her face. “Make a wish.”  
She rolls her eyes but then takes a deep breath and shuts them intently, purses her lips after a few seconds and blows out the candle gently.   
“I’m older than you,” you say, “you realize that.”  
She laughs delightedly. “Keep telling yourself that, creampuff.”  
She stands and helps you up and into her bed—your pillow is already there, and you’re drunk enough that you don’t really care. You settle your head against her chest and you can’t help herself—you kiss her collarbone.  
She kisses the top of your head in response, and then she whispers, “That’s the first time I’ve celebrated in centuries, so, thanks.”  
She’s annoying as hell but you understand more and more how lonely she must be—how much she was, because she’s holding you tightly, her lips pressed to your hair, and you think you help.  
“Happy birthday, then, Carmilla.”  
She tugs you to her a bit tighter and shuts her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> benjamin's 'thesis on the history of philosophy' is featured.


End file.
